Work Text:
Tim scrubs the towel on his damp hair, a refreshing ache in his muscles from his Kayaking trip. He stayed away from the archives for as long as he could stand, and it was great the first month, kayaking down the river from sunrise to sunset. Despite that annoying, needy tug to return to the archives he felt free, relaxed. Then, on his fifth week, the nausea hit. Despite his attempts to weather through, and prove there was no correlation to his distance from the archives, but he just kept getting weaker. He caved less than halfway through his second month, and went home.
Said home had a layer of dust on every surface, with abandoned webs in the corners of his ceiling, even his drawers were still left open from when he packed. The second he was back in town, the nauseating exhaustion in his body eased, only for a deeper, familiar ache to settle back in place. He sat on the side of his bed now, the towel draped over his lap, water still dripping from his hair. Being here, he remembered more than ever that he should not be alive, as if the large, jagged, starburst scar marring his back wasn't enough. Nearly eight months ago he blew up a building, nearly eight months ago he finally blew up the circus, he killed the monsters that took his brother from him. Eight months since his boss fell into a coma. Eight months since he expected to die, and welcomed it.
Except he woke up in the hospital, with a large burn on his back that wouldn't stop aching unless he turned to his side. It was Melanie who told him Jon was practically dead, and everything in him was angry. He was supposed to have died, his words should have left a wound in that posh, arrogant prick that he would have to live with. Instead he felt unjust guilt and worry for the man who dragged him into all this in the first place. At least it led him to taking down the circus. Except the rage didn't leave, but now there was no target except those around him. Every passing second he spent in the archives just left his skin crawling. Every walk past Jon's empty office filled him with equal parts guilt and hate. The less he saw of Martin the more dispassionate he felt. He stopped going to work after three weeks. Before he left for his trip he stepped in to deliver a letter of resignation, but it hurt. He couldn't.
His hair had stopped dripping hours ago, and dawn was overtaking the sky. He didn't want to go to the archive, being closer to it was already making him feel better, but he also didn't want to rot away in his apartment like when he first stopped going. He wouldn't bother going to the hospital to check on Jon. He was dead, his neurons just wouldn't stop firing.
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He wore his loudest Hawaiian shirt, half buttoned, over a white tank top, and when he walked through the archive doors Rosey looked like she had seen a ghost. He wanted to smirk and say something like ‘that's right, Tim the legend is back!’ but he just couldn't. He took the stairs down to the archives, that deep well of agitation swelling deeper every step he took.
“Tim,” Basira said his name with surprise once he came through the door.
“That's my name,” he replied.
“Where have you been?”
“Kyaking,”
Jon's office door burst open behind Basira “Tim!” he hadn't even realized it was closed.
“Shit you're alive!” He said in reflex.
“wha- im alive!?” he blubbers, “Basira and everyone said you died!”
“Me? I woke up months before you did- and you were literally dead! No heartbeat” he turned to look at Basira.
She held up her hands as a placating gesture, “don't look at me, you weren't answering your phone, and after the attack and everything we figured they got you,”
“I- I lost it in a river up in wales- and what attack?!”
“long story,” Basira sighs.
Tim opened his mouth to say something else, but then the air was knocked out of him for a second. Jon. Jon, his stalker boss. Jon, who got him into all this mess. Jonathon fucking Sims, had his arms wrapped around him. His professional, rigid, prickheaded boss was hugging him- rather stiffly, like he himself was uncomfortable, but also tightly. Jonathon Sims, who he thought was dead, who thought he himself was dead, was hugging him. Tim didn't have it in him to push Jon away, not when he had spent the last eight months regretting his last words towards him. So instead he returned the hug to the clearly desperate man.
“I still don't forgive you,” he felt the need to say.
“I know,”
Tim scoffed, “did you have to reach into my head for that boss?”
“No,” and then he pulled away and looked at Tim with bleary eyes.
The door to the archives was then thrown open, and Martin's big frame rushed into the room “Tim! you're alive!” he said, and engulfed him in a hug.
“Why does everyone think I died! any one could lose their phone you know,” he said as he hugged the man back.
“long story,” Martin parroted Basira's earlier words.
“How did the plan with Elias go?”
“worked like a charm,” Martin said with a small laugh.
When Tim pulled back to look at Martin he noticed just how pale he was, and a few greying wisps in his ginger hair. There was something… lonely about him, and when he turned to look at Jon he was almost sure that he had a look of sadness and jealousy in his eyes. What happened between them?
“So who's running the place?” he asked.
“a guy named Peter Lucas” Martin seemed to wince when Jon said the name, “he's an avatar of the Lonely,” Jon seemed to look directly at Martin when he said it.
It only took Tim a second to understand, and he didn't like it.
Martin shifted uncomfortably “well.. I better get back to work- it's great to see you Tim,” and then he left.
“... how long has he been acting this way?”
“A little while after the attack, it happened just three days after you left,” Basira answered.
“is.. is he going to be ok?”
“He promised he would come seek us before he got too deep into anything,” Jon said hesitantly, side eyeing the floor to avoid any one's gaze.
“and do you believe he would?” Tim asked pointedly.
“I- … I want to trust him,” Jon looked at Tim, “and I want to trust you,”
Tim scoffed, “not what I asked, do you, believe him?”
“I- I… I don't know-”
“don't know, or don't want to know?”
“I don't know!” Jon answered, “I don't know Tim,”
It went quiet and tense in the archives, until Tim broke the silence “You're all coming with me to the pub after work, even if we have to drag Martin by the ankles,” He looked at Jon, and Basira.
Jon smiled, “fine.”
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While they didn’t have to drag Martin exactly, Tim did have to guilt trip him into coming, and he could have sworn he felt something glaring at him from behind as playfully shoved Martin out of his office. He felt he shouldn't look back. While at the pub they got him up to speed, finally telling him that long story about the attack. All night Jon and Martin seemed to dance around each other, although Martin seemed to be dancing away. By the end of the night though, while he was pestering Basira with questions, he could see John and Martin talking to each other in whispers. Not fighting whispers, almost, gentle ones, and he could have sworn he saw John reach out, and gently touch Martin's hand.
He's already glad he came back.